


I'm Sorry I Can't Be Him

by bowstellaluceat



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Recovery, What Have I Done, bc i dont think im worthy of love, but im a burns kinnie, god sometimes you just have to write angst, hidden past, i love burnsmithers, please dont hate me, so i wrote this to hurt myself, this is the best thing ive written in months, waylon sr shouldnt have died
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28993893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowstellaluceat/pseuds/bowstellaluceat
Summary: Charles Montgomery Burns and Waylon Smithers Sr. had been in love since the day they met. But with Waylon's untimely demise, Monty is left to pick up the pieces, he doesn't know what to do. But you know the perfect solution to losing your lover? Raise his son to be just like them! Now, over 30 years later, Waylon Jr has snapped out of the fantasy that Burns might actually love him once and for all. When Waylon goes to quit, an extremely unpleasant truth comes out that derails Waylon's life and sends him grasping for a way out of the hole he's been pushed into. But what are you supposed to do when you realize your entire life has just been molded to help a grieving old man cope with the loss of your father?(I'm shit at summaries but please give this a chance. I worked really hard on it and I think its good for the angst alone even if you don't care about the characters or the ships)
Relationships: Charles Montgomery Burns/Waylon Smithers Sr., Waylon Smithers S, Waylon Smithers/Moe Szyslak
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	I'm Sorry I Can't Be Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to explore the angst in the concept of Monty only keeping Waylon Jr around because he’s so similar to Waylon Sr. It’s less focused on any one ship and it’s more focused on Waylon. I really wanted to tell a story about someone recovering from long term emotional abuse since it’s something I’m currently recovering from myself. I poured a lot into this work so if you could support me it would mean the world.

Waylon had planned it all out in his head, what he was going to say, how he would say it. He had been repeating it to himself all of last night. He had barely gotten any sleep because he had been replaying an imaginary argument in his head on loop.  
That morning when he walked into the office, resignation form neatly folded and in his hand, he could feel the anxiety deep in the pit of his stomach. And it got worse and worse the closer he stepped to Mr. Burns’ office. He waited outside for a good minute, his hand resting on the door handle. His entire body seemed to tremble as he turned the knob, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.  
Mr. Burns looked up from his morning newspaper, a look on his face that he had become all too familiar with in all his years of working for the man. He had always enjoyed laughing at those unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of Montgomery's angry fury but when he started to become the target of that signature glare more and more, it wasn’t as funny. He stopped laughing after a while. It was the kind of look that made you feel three sizes smaller. It was the kind that erased all coherent thought and made your chest tighten. It was a look that said, “make one wrong move and you’ll wish you were dead”. It was a look that Monty used to intimidate. It was a look he used to get his way.  
“You’re late.”  
Monty’s words seemed to echo across the office. Waylon gulped. His knees felt like jelly. He tried his best to suck in a few breaths before he crossed the space to stand before his boss.  
“Yes, I know I’m late. I’m only here to tell you..uh..” Waylon paused, taking another breath. “To tell you I quit.”  
He set the resignation paper on Mr. Burns’ desk with finality, feeling as if he was going to pass out.  
The office was dead silent as Monty picked up the form and read it over, his face betrayed nothing as to what he was feeling other than mild surprise. He frowned and looked up at Waylon  
“You’re quitting?”  
“Yes. I don’t want to work for you anymore.”  
Montgomery templed his fingers, his eyes darting down at the paper and then back up at Waylon and then downward again. He seemed to be at a loss for words. There was no emotion in his face, but Waylon could pick up on the shake of his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed against one another. He was upset. Aggravated at best; furious at worst.  
“May I ask why?”  
His words seemed to come out slowly like he was having trouble spitting them out. Or having trouble spitting them out without yelling.  
Waylon scoffed softly, reminding himself of the words he had been repeating to himself all last night.  
“To put it frankly, you’re cruel. You treat me like dirt and I refuse to put up with it any longer. When I first started working for you, I felt like we actually had a bond. I thought maybe you actually cared about me.” Waylon refused to look up as he spoke, he didn’t want to see Monty’s reaction to his words. “But over time you’ve treated me worse and worse. And I just thought maybe if I tried a little harder, if I cared a little more, I could fix you. But now I realize that is a stupid fantasy because you are beyond repair. And I refuse to put up with this anymore.”  
After Waylon finished, silence fell over the two men, suffocating and thick like a blanket. Waylon had to muster up the courage to look up at his boss, tightly lacing his fingers together in an attempt to stop the shaking that had progressively gotten worse over the course of his speech.  
Montgomery was staring down at the resignation form again his mouth set in a firm line. Eventually, he leaned back, sneering.  
“Fine. Quit. Just get out of my sight.” Montgomery said, finally breaking the silence.  
Waylon nodded, not having the strength to say anything else. He turned and went for the door. Every footstep was painful. Every one felt like it took a hundred years and sounded like cannons reverberating off the walls. But when he finally reached the door he hesitated, hand hovering near the doorknob. He turned and looked back at Burns, becoming aware that the old man was watching his every move.  
Waylon cleared his throat, “Can I ask you something?”  
“What?” Monty snapped, causing Waylon to shift away from him on instinct.  
“Why did you do it? Why did you treat me so poorly when I was the only one who was truly on your side? Why did you act like I didn’t matter?”  
Mr. Burns sat there for a moment in thought, looking Waylon over.  
“Well let me put this simply. It’s because you don’t matter. You never have. I simply kept you around because you were all I had left of Waylon Sr.”  
Waylon felt like he had been punched in the gut. “My father?”  
“Indeed. After he died I had nobody. Your father was the only one who was always by my side. But you. You looked so much like him. Even now you’re the spitting image of your father. I had always loved your father and I thought if I could make you just like him, it would be like he never left. But as the years passed on, I came to realize that you will never be your father. And so I stopped caring.”  
Waylon stood there in shock. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. He was dizzy and his head seemed to spin. He couldn’t even speak another word to this man. He had never been so angry. So upset. So heartbroken in his entire life. He flung open the door of the office and stormed out.  
As he made his way out of the plant, he could hear people calling out to him, friendly greetings, and hellos, but he ignored them all. He was almost in a trance until he left through the main doors of the power plant and the cool air of the outdoors hit his face. He bent over, hands on his knees, sucking in desperate gulps of air as he tried to maintain his composure.  
His father?  
So much seemed to make sense now. How Monty would place a hand on his shoulder and look at him affectionately, remarking on how much he looked like his father. How he would always insist Waylon stayed far, far away from the core. How whenever he would call him Waylon, it never felt like he was ever actually talking to him. How he seemed to hate him more and more with each passing day.  
Bile rose up in his throat. He couldn’t think straight and before he knew it, he was bent over a trash can, heaving up his sorry excuse of a breakfast.

Twelve days. It had been twelve days since he had quit his job. Twelve days since Montgomery Burns had told him he had never mattered. That he was just a pawn, a little boy stuck in his father’s shadow, a tool used as the last resort of a grieving man.  
Twelve days since his life fell apart.  
He had spent the first eleven days in a drunken blur. He was either drinking at Moe’s or drinking at home. Whatever it took to mask the pain. Whatever it took to make him feel like he was somebody. He had never felt so miserable in his entire life. It was truly over. The overblown fantasy he had been living in for over a decade had been completely shattered. It was like he had been working on a sandcastle for the better part of his adult years, only for someone to come and kick it into his face.  
On the twelfth day, Waylon woke up with an indescribable feeling. He had let his entire life go to waste serving everyone around him and now he could finally do what he wanted. He took a shower, a long one, one that he could actually enjoy. He sat down to eat his breakfast and was able to finish it, he took his dog for a walk. So many simple little things that he hadn’t been able to do since he had sold his life over to the Burns Corporation.  
He wondered if his dad had felt this way if he had felt trapped while working with Mr. Burns. Probably not. Monty had actually liked his father. They were best friends. His father cared so much about Monty he had set aside his own son to rush in and risk his life just to save Monty’s plant.  
Waylon clenched his fist as if tensing up would somehow keep all of his emotions deep inside. As if the action could force back his tears. He took a deep breath and let it out, wishing he could send all of his inner turmoil away in a single sigh. 

He halted his walking as Hercules stopped to sniff a bush. He glanced around at the empty sidewalk and his eyes landed on the gate across the street. Springfield Cemetery. He gulped. In all his years alive he had never once visited his father’s grave. He didn’t know why. The place seemed to repel him and even when he had learned the truth about what had happened to his father, he hadn’t dared to step inside. He was almost terrified. But Waylon didn’t want to be a slave to anyone anymore, not even himself or his emotions. So with a deep breath, he scooped up Hercules and crossed the street.  
The cemetery was empty, it was quiet. He felt anxiety bubble up in his stomach and he was just tempted to turn and leave when he realized he had absolutely no idea where his father was buried. He was already turning to run back to the gate when he convinced himself to take on the search for his father’s grave.  
It took almost half an hour of searching, but Waylon eventually stumbled upon a grave that was completely smothered in red roses, they were everywhere. It looked like cupid had barfed up Valentine’s Day onto someone’s final resting place. Some looked like they had been there for years and others looked like they had just been placed there this morning. There were dozens of them, they all took up a good few feet of space all around the grave.  
Waylon was curious as to who could be so important as to receive such an onslaught of flowers and he couldn’t help but gasp out loud when he realized the name carved into the stone was Waylon J. Smithers Sr. He let out an awkward chuckle, his hands shaking as he bent down and brushed his fingers over the grave.  
He looked down and noticed that Hercules was sniffing at a large mahogany box. It was quite nice and Waylon recognized the markings on the box at once as Montgomery’s seal. His eyes widened as he realized everything on his father’s grave was left by Monty. Curiosity consumed him and he drummed his fingers on the lid, debating if he should look inside.  
It didn’t even take him long to make a decision; with quaking hands, he opened the lid to the box. Inside were envelopes upon envelopes all sealed with the signature Burns seal. He picked up one of the envelopes, which had yesterday’s date printed neatly on the front. He felt a twinge of guilt as he broke the seal and pulled the letter out from inside. But it wasn’t like his father would ever be able to read them and he didn’t particularly care much for Mr. Burns’ privacy at this moment.  
My Dearest, Waylon,  
Waylon flinched as he read the words he had longed to hear for years and years and years. The exact words he had fantasized about so many times. But they weren’t for him. They never would be.  
I’m afraid that I’ve once again made a horrible mistake. I should have protected your son when you died. He was all I had left of you and in my desperation not to lose you forever, I think I’ve completely ruined the one thing I have left of you. We’ve both always known that I’m a very stupid man, but it seems that all I’m able to do without you is make one mistake after another. I’m such a cruel, old man. If such a thing as heaven exists, I know you are up there, cursing my name and wishing you never met me.  
You should have never gone into the core that day. It should have been me. I have nobody. No family, no children, nobody who loves me but you had so much to live for. And you had worked so hard to get it. You labored away day after day and only got a fraction of what I had. But you didn’t seem to care. You were always so happy. Nobody would have even cared if I had died. I think if anything they would be happy.  
My dear, I’m so sorry for all the mistakes I’ve made. Most of all I’m sorry for what I did to your son. I only hope he can be happier away from me.  
Yours now and forever,  
Montgomery.  
Waylon hadn’t even realized that he had begun to cry until the tears started dripping onto his hands and the paper. He first tried to force back the tears, frantically wiping them away but soon he realized that it was hopeless. He doubled over and started sobbing. They were heartwrenching, loud, broken sobs that seemed to rip themselves forcefully from his chest. Years of hardship and abuse and only now did Waylon have the strength to really, truly cry. He cried because he missed his father. He cried because his life meant nothing. He cried because his heart was broken. He cried for every time he had been hit, screamed at, bossed around, and downtrodden. He just sat there in the dirt before his father’s grave and sobbed, the letter clutched in his fist.  
He wasn’t sure how long he had sat there crying or if anyone had seen him, but he didn’t particularly care. He wiped his face, fixed his glasses, and stood, scooping up Hercules who had been sitting patiently beside him the whole time. He was about to turn and leave when he looked down once again at the box of letters on his father’s grave. There could be so many answers in that box. He could read through the letters and return them later. Nobody would even notice they’re gone.  
He bent down. Picked up the box, and hurried home.

When Waylon got home, he sat down at his kitchen table and began to sort the letters by year, from the earliest ones all the way up to those most recent. Once he was done he had 30 years' worth, over 360 letters, of correspondence between C. Montgomery Burns and his dearly departed best friend.  
Waylon just sat there and looked at all the letters, feeling all of his emotions rise to the surface once again. He buried his head in his hands. Why had he been so in love with Monty? What had he ever seen in the man? Was it the same things his father saw? His stomach lurched and his cheeks burned with shame. This whole time Mr. Burns had only kept him around because he was just like his father. He had never once given a damn about Waylon.  
He chuckled to himself, feeling almost insane. A hollow feeling came over him and to quell his surging thoughts he reached for the first envelope, dated almost a week after his father’s death.  
My Dearest, Waylon,  
You’ve been gone for nearly a week now and I still don’t know how to handle the thought of losing you.  
Remember that story I always used to tell you about my uncle? How he could snap his fingers and any problem he had would disappear? I always told you how much I’ve hated the fact that he could hurt anyone he wanted and then cover it up without even lifting a finger.  
Today I realized that I have become my uncle. I suppose I always knew but my actions following your death have confirmed it for me. I covered the whole thing up. I don’t know what came over me, but in a moment of greed and selfishness, I had your body dumped and your death covered up. Not even your wife knows how you really died.  
Oh, my love, I hope that, wherever you are, you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I know I am not a good person. I know I’m not the man you met in college. I know I have failed in so many ways, but I want to be better.  
I’ve offered to help your wife financially. The least I can do is help your son grow up in a stable home. Maybe I can teach him to be more like his father.  
Yours now and forever,  
Montgomery  
Waylon played that last sentence over and over in his head. Out of context, it seemed almost sweet. A lover's last promise to a dead man. But when put next to Monty’s behavior for all of Waylon’s life. It was a revolting sentence that angered Waylon in more ways than he had words for.

For the next several hours, Waylon read through every single one of Monty’s letters. The one that stood out to him the most was a letter dated a few months after Monty had hired Waylon as his official assistant.  
My Dearest, Waylon,  
I have realized something distressing about your son. I believe he is afraid of me. He flinches and recoils whenever I raise my voice. I can see him shuffle back when he notices me losing my temper. I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it. But I notice it every time. I wanted to be by his side as he grew. Maybe he could get something kind of like a father and I could get a little piece of you back. But I was never meant to raise a child and, well, he will never be you.  
Waylon had to stop reading the letter at that point. He once again began crying, resting his head on the table as he made no effort to fight the tears this time.  
He felt like such a pawn. With each letter he read, he seemed to shrink a little bit more. And yet he kept reading. Desperate for answers and explanations. He read through the entire night, and by the time the sun peeked through the blinds, Waylon was fast asleep at his table, a letter still in his hand.


End file.
